


Syncopation

by Damson



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Episode: s01e07 Magic to Make the Sanest Man Go Mad, F/M, Fanonpaloosa, Fluff, Melancholy, Romance, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 02:14:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12807411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damson/pseuds/Damson
Summary: “Something that can make you do wrong, and make you do right… love, love and happiness."- Al Green





	Syncopation

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time back writing fic in the best part of ten years, massive thank you to MsWyrr for answering my public call for beta assistance on Tumblr, not knowing me from Adam. It’s folks like that that make fandom so wonderful.
> 
> I’ve chopped and changed a lot and so any remaining errors are all my own.

**Syncopation**  
noun  
1.  
_Music._ a shifting of the normal accent, usually by stressing the normally unaccented beats.

——

"I'm a really good dancer." - Lt. Ash Tyler

——

For the first time in months Ash Tyler feels as if he’s in his element.

His body buzzes with the social interaction and distraction the party provides; not only is it a welcome break from the routine of regular duty shifts, but also a fantastic excuse not to be in his assigned quarters, alone. The daily repetition of the past few weeks has been almost comforting. He feels useful, like he’s becoming part of the team, and his transition into the Chief of Security role has been pretty seamless. But there’s still a small part of him that remains uneasy, itches for the action of combat.

The only thing that has offered any salve to his sleepless nights and long days are the shining moments involving Michael - her studiousness in assisting him in the armoury, their lunches together conversing easily through small talk, profound life truths and back again. He’s even, much to his delight, discovered a way to make her laugh.

He had spent the first hour of the party mingling and flirting with the crew from astrophysics. Which was fun, but he was distracted, his attention shifting back and forth between the entrance to the rec room and the spot that Tilly was hanging out at by the makeshift bar.

At 10.02pm, Michael finally arrives.

She appears deeply uncomfortable, a steely look on her face and her shoulders set. Ash watches as she looks around, spots Tilly and visibly mellows. He feels a sudden tug of guilt that maybe he had pushed her too hard to come along. It’s clearly a challenging environment for her, but if he knows her like he thinks he does, she is more than able to rise to the challenge. Excusing himself  from the group he had been chatting to he makes his way over to them both. Tilly grins when she sees him, but quickly makes an excuse and waggles her eyebrows at him as she ducks away.

Subtle as a Romulan, Ash thinks.

He greets Michael cheerfully, but before they can become entrenched in small talk feels a sudden surge of bravery, and blurts out, “Burnham, Would you like to dance?” Steeling himself for a polite Vulcan brush off he’s surprised when she pauses, seeming to weigh up the pros and cons, and agrees. They join the swell of the others on the dance-floor, the first bars of the song are playing by the time Ash guides her hand to his shoulder and begins moving. Their connection is cautious at first, as they both establish each others comfort level. He doesn’t think they’ve been this close before. He's about to ask if she's okay, when he feels her resist the lead he's offering. He immediately softens his tone to allow her to take over, but the change appears to startle her, and she narrowly avoids colliding with his feet.

He holds her fast.

“Easy there,“ he smiles in an attempt to alleviate her tension, “you can lead me if you want, I don’t mind —”

“No, perhaps next time,” Michael says quickly, before adding, “I’d like to experience this first.”

Ash laughs. “Ever the Xenoanthropologist, eh? I’m not sure how I feel about being studied, don’t you need consent?”

“Naturally” Michael replies, “all ethnographic observation with a component of contact requires at the very least an ethical statement and outline provided to the subject prior to research.” Visibly relaxing at the opportunity to talk about something she was expert on. They don’t speak for a few moments and Ash finds his mind drifting, the song is familiar, and then he remembers.

His Mom had loved to dance..

Really, when he thought about it, he had her to thank for feeling so comfortable leading Michael across the dance-floor. Some of his fondest memories were of her playing music in their house. She would sway her hips to her favourite 20th century classics as she cooked or tidied; she had the most elegant movements, tall and sinewy with long limbs and short dark hair that grazed the dark skin of her neck.

Mostly though, when Ash thought of his mother, he remembered her warmth and her sense of fun. When he was little she frequently used to hold him in the air, his legs dangling, spinning circles to polka music from Costell III and narrowly avoiding collisions with furniture in their living space.

Ash’s dad on the other hand used to hate dancing. Or at least that was what his mother told him. Ash supposed that that was reason enough for her to encourage him.

He closes his eyes and takes in the here and now. The pure joy of it. The rhythm of the music playing through the panels across the deck. The smell of synthale and sweat. The feel of Michael’s  hand in his own, small and warm. His other resting on her lower back as they move in gentle circles under the pink-purple light of the decorations. Hoots and shouts from the beer-pong tournament echo behind them. The song shifts into the next verse, _“Well, happiness is when, you really feel good with somebody.”_

Ash’s Mom had first proposed lessons when he was a five year old with energy to burn. The teacher was a friend of hers; a sweet half-Bajoran women called Eri Zeeda whose son was in her third grade class. After being medically discharged from active service, she had settled back on earth and set up a small dance school.

Ash was a tall kid, stretching nearly a foot past his classmates by the age of five. Skinny too and with a shock of black hair that, to his mother's perpetual exasperation, was never out of his expressive eyes. She made the suggestion of lessons in that casual way she had, while giving him his bowl of Planetoid Pops covered in milk before school.

"Physical culture is as important as working your academics you know," she had pointed out as she poured herself a coffee. "Dancing is pure harmony, your body and your mind working as one with the music, movement is key to being whole." Even when he was little, she used to speak to him like he was an adult and had a tendency to go off on tangents that he never could follow too well.

Will my friends be there? — was all he remembered thinking, but he must have agreed because he remembered the day they went; looking up at her, and her brown eyes crinkling as she gave him her biggest smile; him squeezing her hand with anxiety as they walked into the large open space.

"It's all right, Ash, give it one class.” His Mom had said, “If you don't like it, we don't have to come back."

Ten minutes and Ash had forgotten all previous shyness.

Behind him and Michael, shouts and roars bounce off the hull as the beer pong tournament crowns its victor. Michael curls her fingers around his, and he looks at their hands entwined. He can’t remember the last time he was at a party like this, maybe the Academy? His mind wanders again. Ash feels like lately, he spends a lot of time trying to focus on all the good he has in his life, trying not to slip into dark places. Grasping at all he has in the moment, tightening it around himself like a blanket — like armour.

He remembered that Eri had initially frightened him, her biosynthetic arm set aside for dancing, propped up on the small stage at one end of the hall. Watching her attach it after class terrified and fascinated him in equal measure. Did it hurt? Was it better than her real arm? He pestered his mother for answers until she told him he should ask Eri himself. So he did.

For a year or two he and his Mom went every so often, and Ash got to know Eri better. But as he got older his attendance waned. The games they played imitating space creatures felt childish and the danger and challenge of Parrises squares much more appealing.

It hadn’t been until one of his tutors mentioned that cross training in as many physical and mental disciplines as possible would improve his chances at passing his cadet exams, that he looked her up again. Once he had set his sights on becoming a Starfleet officer he’d wanted all the advantage he could muster, this included probing Eri with questions about the Academy before and after class.

After all, she was the only ex-Starfleet officer he knew.

He catches Tilly watching them from across the room, then dissolving into tipsy giggling with some of the other cadets. He knew it was good natured, he didn’t think it were possible for Tilly to be otherwise. She reminded him of some of his classmates, their eagerness to prove themselves, their kindness, their earnestness. None of them had any comprehension back then of the reality of serving, of possible conflict. No idea of the scars it left if you did survive.

The day Ash passed his cadet exams, he’d turbo'd home quicker than light, found his mom reading her padd on the couch and despite her outward happiness for him, he could tell she was sorrowful too. She was never keen that her only son join Starfleet.

At the Academy, his strength, flexibility, and coordination meant his marksmanship hit rate was 89% higher than his classmates. When they asked how, he would just grin and wink as they rolled their eyes.  His friends had become his family, his home, more than ever after his Mom’s passing, and he had surrounded himself with so many good people…

So many of them now lost.

Ash startles when he realises that Michael is looking up at him, not so much worry on her face but questioning. He must have been completely absent, and he feels guilty for becoming so withdrawn into himself.

"Sorry,” he says, “just remembering."

He takes Michael’s hand and breaks their embrace to lead her into a slow underarm rotation in time to the music. Michael turns, her hips swaying slowly in tempo as she steps around, and falls back into step with him.  He once again invites her into a close hold, her body touching his in one long line from chest to knee.

At his Mom’s funeral years later, Eri told him that while she had loved serving more than anything in the world, she realised when she was discharged that other than her son and career, she had nothing else. Squeezing his hand, she had looked him dead in the eye, and with an honesty that almost burnt through him said: "Never let Starfleet consume you, remember people are the heart of all." With that she hugged him with such warmth, it reminded him all over again of his recent, pointless, loss and he found himself wiping at his face before shaking the hand of the next in line to offer their condolences.

Michael doesn’t ask him what about, maybe it’s written on his face, or maybe she simply doesn’t want to pry. For all her admittance of limited human emotional intelligence, Ash found her to be naturally empathetic. Involuntarily he felt himself soften, his guard slip. She was just so easy to talk to.

"My Mom loved this song," Michael looked confused for a split second before he elaborated, "She died while I was at the Academy."

Michael doesn’t look directly at him. A fact that he is inexplicably grateful for.

”I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I was unaware."

Ash shakes his head in a micro motion, as if shaking off her sympathy, "It was a long time ago, or at least it seems that way.” He knows he’s slipping into the comfortable script he performs when people ask.

"She was on her way to the moons of Grazer - a rogue comet. First vacation in 12 years…” But after Michael's outpouring of honesty regarding her relationship with Sarek, he felt disingenuous for parroting to her. She wasn’t just anyone. She deserved so much more than the usual script.

"That must have been difficult.” Michael says, and he feels her hand shift on his shoulder, and her body move ever so slightly closer. All he can manage is a quiet "Yeah”, which seems lost in the music as he swallows the tight knot in his throat.

They move without speaking for a while, Michael instinctively allowing space to form around Ash’s words.

"She loved to dance, she eh, brought me to classes," Ash says, following it with a softer, "and I miss her... but I like to focus on the good times.”

Michael nods, and Ash gets the feeling that she really does understand.

They move in gentle rotation, the music slow enough that they don’t have to exert much effort to keep up with it. Ash watches out for drunken couples, turning quickly to shelter her with his shoulders — ever a good pilot. As the last notes of the song play, the couples around them resume chatting and begin to disperse, but for a moment neither of them move, not wanting to break the connection. Ash speaks first, his brow raised in question, "Another dance?"

The music begins, and it’s another classic from the 20th century. After a short piano introduction, a strong female voice kicks in, asserting itself over the piano: _“You know the night time, is the right time, to be— to be with the one you love.”_

Michael’s answer forms on her lips before her brain has a chance to catch up, "Yes, I would.” She continues, speaking loudly to be heard over the babble of the room, “Do you mind if I try and lead this one?”

Ash answers with a smile, “Of course I don’t.”

Michael relishes the opportunity to take the lead.

She shifts position, mimicking the posture Ash took during their previous dance. She takes his right hand in hers and holds it in the air between them, placing her other hand on his lower back. She observes the crew around too, to see what they are doing.

It takes her a few seconds to settle, but seemingly without much effort, she finds the rhythm. She knew very little of dancing like this, but the laws of physics applied no less than any other physical activity or sport. She had always taken to things quickly. Expert at observing and analysing working components. It was Ash whom, she discovered, was opening her up to the layers of emotional and human complexity that she had previously overlooked.

He was easy to lead, soft and responsive, requiring little energy to move despite his height. His jacket was casually open and the warmth coming through his t-shirt was, she found, very distracting. It was a surprisingly intense connection for it being so seemingly simple. Whereas before she had watched the couples dancing with trepidation, she could now very much see the appeal.

He shifts his hand on the back of her right shoulder, moving closer still and Michael identifies a faint scent of soap, and something else pleasant to her. Tilly catches her eye from a couch off to the side, and gives her a huge grin, an exaggerated wink, and two enthusiastic thumbs up before returning her attention to the long-haired botanist next to her.

Together, she and Ash find the space between the notes, their shifting weight drawing out like elastic stretched, before springing back. Michael looks up at him, his eyes are closed, his lashes long and black, and she can almost feel him listening with his body to every slight movement of her core, her weight shift from left to right and back again.

She finds the slight time-lag between her lead and his steps to be pleasing. Michael remembers Amanda telling her about the human tradition of the slow-set on Earth. Amanda had lost as much as she had gained when she married Sarek, but some human traditions she held close to her heart, offering them to Michael in a way she never could Sarek and Spock. This must be what she had referred to. Michael now understands why Amanda blushed while telling her of the dances she attended as a young woman.

The music crescendos, the singer's voice soaring over piano and trumpet, before  a break where the piano to takes over once again. Michael imagines piloting a shuttle to this song; a dance in space. She can feel rebelliousness in in her belly, she knows of the inefficiency of the desire and the action it represents, but yearns for the freedom of it. Of imagination and flights of fancy. And at that moment she feels so alive, so within the present, so mentally and physically engaged with the music’s ebbs and flows, that she doesn’t notice Ash staring down at her with an indescribable look of fondness.

His expression transforms into an eye crinkling smile before softening into one she hasn’t seen before, “This music makes me feel good,” he says. Then he leans down, and she feels his stubble scratch her cheek as he whispers in her ear, "and so do you."

Michael feels something bloom and tug at her chest, unfurling in confusing wisps, but instead of forming a response, which she feels completely unequipped to do, she takes her lead from the others now slow dancing around them, lays her cheek against his shoulder, and smiles inwardly.

She feels a chuckle resonate through his chest, as he pulls her closer and rests his head on hers.

END

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to dance with someone special, other than Al Green, I would highly recommend Night Time is the Right Time - Aretha Franklin, and Nina Simone - My Dearist Darling. <3


End file.
